


Fill My Lungs with Sweetness

by starclipped



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Christmas, Domestic, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post TWS, Stucky - Freeform, Stucky Secret Santa 2014, Stucky secret santa, for: theboykingsbrokencrown, mentions of clintasha - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 15:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2817464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are coupons, presents, friendships, feelings, and a list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fill My Lungs with Sweetness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elenajames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/gifts).



>  
> 
> __  
> "In the morning, when I wake  
>  and the sun is coming through  
> Oh, you fill my lungs with sweetness  
> and you fill my head with you"  
> 
> 
>   
> [stucky secret santa fic] 

 

Time has not been kind.

He couldn’t remember much at first, just flashes of blurry images bathed in brown and gold and brilliant blue, moving quick and jerky behind his eyelids like the tail end of an old show. And it seemed like it was always the end, in the beginning. He could never recover the start of a memory, only glimpsed the fading moments and, if he was lucky, a piece of the middle would be torn out and shoved into the barrel of random smells or tastes, sights or touches; his body still the trigger it’s always been. But he’s not killing anyone anymore, he’s creating life through stolen memories, recovering the past to settle into the present and be ready for the future he never even thought he should have.

Almost ten decades he’s been alive, but he remembers less than half of it. Vaguely, Bucky can recall meeting angry little Steve Rogers, with his scraped knobby knees and bloody jutted chin, in the early 1920’s. He remembers growing up with three siblings and a scrappy, gold-hearted best friend, ignoring the people who asked what they could possibly have in common because they’d never understand.

He remembers the 1940’s most clearly, with the change in Steve’s physique and the raging war, the torture and the cold and the fall. He remembers how looking through a scope in 1963 felt like the first time instead the thousandth, how 1971 jumped to 1978 between a nap in the ice, how he knew he endured brutal training in the 80’s even though he couldn’t remember why the face of his handler felt new all of a sudden. He remembers a staged crash in 1991, remembers teaching little girls how to use their bodies as weapons in 1993, and he remembers trying to kill the only person who made his chest feel heavy and light and _whole_ in 2014.

Time has not been kind and neither have most people, but Steve Rogers is _not_ most people. And as backwards as needing someone else to be yourself again might seem, Bucky wouldn’t have been able to grasp autonomy and take control of his life without Steve to guide him. But he supposes that it’s always been this way, Steve paving the path for Bucky to follow, if he chose. He always did. He always will.

Every morning, no matter where he wakes up – on the couch with a crick in his neck, in his bed with sweat soaked sheets, or warm and safe curled around Steve – he tells himself that this is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. He tells himself that every morning so every night he can think about all the ways carrying on is worth it.

And it _is_ worth it, there’s no question there.

**____________________________**

Bucky misses Avengers Tower sometimes, he might admit on a good day, when he’s feeling generous. It’d been odd at first; too big and shiny and cluttered. It was utter chaos most days, with so many people and their very distinct personalities. He still thinks Stark is crazy for creating floors to accommodate two master assassins, a god of thunder, a man with the ability to shift into a giant green monster, a super soldier with no self-preservation skills, an ex-soldier turned counselor with jetpack wings, numerous ex-SHIELD agents, an AI with incredible sass, and a handful of whirring robots that like to extinguish non-existent fires and drop tiny tools. And with all of this going on inside the tower, suddenly a brainwashed super soldier assassin didn’t seem so bad. Well, to everyone _except_ said brainwashed super soldier assassin.

He spent a lot of time on Steve’s floor the first few months, healing and learning and getting into a routine. The gym became a constant haunt for him whenever things got too overwhelming and he needed to let off some steam. He’d spar with Thor, because the guy liked a good battle and couldn’t be hurt by anything Bucky could do, or Natasha when she felt extra prickly and needed an outlet just as badly as he did. But Steve’s offers were always disregarded because Bucky still had nightmares about Steve’s bloody, swollen face, and he couldn’t trust himself not to go berserk again.

So once he got past the big, gaudy building and all its quirky inhabitants, Avengers Tower became something like a home; the first for Bucky in decades, but not the last.

**____________________________**

Pulling Steve out of the Potomac had been instinctive – _always protect Steve_ – something they couldn’t wipe because of how inherent it had been to his DNA. He couldn’t understand the swell of emotions, the loud thoughts swarming his frantic mind, but he _believed_. He believed Steve’s words, _to the end of the line,_ and if he was James Buchanan Barnes – something more than just an asset, a soldier; _some one_ – then he’d find it out for himself.

It wasn’t hard to collect necessities, food and clothing were easily taken and there were enough nooks and crannies in DC to find some form of shelter; nor was it hard to disappear in the city. The biggest obstacle came when he found himself looking at an oversized photograph and thinking that it could be a mirror.

 **____________________________**  

One of his favorite places at Avengers Tower was the underground garage. It was filled with beautiful, flashy cars and an array of odd tools that one could only expect a Stark to own. They were different than the older models, but so was he, and it didn’t matter once he got under the hood. Steve had told him that he’d always been a fast learner and the serum only enhanced his abilities, allowing him to pick up on skills with ease.

It took him a week to understand the mechanics of all the cars in the garage and then several months to fix up the many junkers that Tony had apparently acquired a sudden taste for. He’d thanked the rich bastard by _finally_ letting him get a peek at the arm.

And while the garage connected to the two-story house he and Steve share in Lower Manhattan isn’t exactly _huge_ , he can squeeze in two fixer-uppers alongside Steve’s beaut of a Harley and still have wiggle room without much of a problem. 

 **____________________________**  

His original plan had been to scour the museum for every piece of information pertaining to Captain America, The Howling Commandos, and one Sergeant James Barnes. But the problem with plans is that they so often change, and with him carrying his own leash now, nothing could be set in stone.

He absorbed what he could from the rose-tinted stories, the faded photographs behind glass cases, and the grainy footage set on loop, but there hadn’t been an epiphany, nor had there been anyone to shock the new information out of existence. So he held it tight in his mind, locked it away in his freezer-burned heart, and slipped out of the museum to find his next mission objective.

It found him first, on the outskirts of a foreign city some 93 days later.

**____________________________**

When Bucky’s not in the garage getting grease stuck between the joints of his fingers and smudged all across thin t-shirts and ripped jeans, he’s rifling around in the kitchen.

There’d been two at the tower, a private section in Steve’s apartment and a communal four floors down. Both were polished and jam-packed, a joy to shuffle around, learning every device and diving in with only vague remembered knowledge of what to do.

Growing up with four women in the house meant that Bucky never needed to learn how to cook – not straight away, not until he’d moved in with Steve. Then it was just two guys who knew shit aside from eggs and oatmeal. And living with Steve meant that either Bucky learned how to cook or they’d go without because that skinny little punk never remembered to eat three meals a day.

Steve knows how to cook now, of course, and he’s good, but he doesn’t enjoy it the way Bucky does. For him, taking all those mismatched ingredients and blending them together to make something _whole_ and _good_ is more than satisfying.

Cooking with Steve is a whole other level.

They’d started slow, popping in to watch and then offering up their services for a small task. Steve had been uncertain about how Bucky was receiving their restarted kinship and unwilling to cage him in, or so he said, and Bucky had been almost dejected by Steve’s avoidances. But all it took was one time, one offer and one acceptance, for them to find their stride.

They move around each other like planets in orbit, now; never stumbling or falling out of sync. Bucky will instruct softly – which spices to add and how much, how fine to chop, when to pull something out of the oven – and it’s the only real time that Steve completely obeys commands. It’s endearing, how much he wants to encourage and be involved in Bucky’s recovery. And it’s astounding to find out that the puzzle pieces of his life haven’t yet been warped beyond repair. Maybe with Steve, they never will be.

**____________________________**

Facing Steve in the midst of his path of explosive destruction hadn’t been the best of circumstances, but it was necessary. If he’d been in a different mindset, something less than angry and more than a little lost, he might not have given in as quickly as he did. But he made that choice, the second good one in a long, long time; and so many tell him how that’s something to be proud of.

Truthfully, what he’s most proud of is Steve.   

 **____________________________**  

 **____________________________**  

Bucky does a lot of things these days. He tinkers and cooks and spends countless hours listening to all kinds of music; runs every morning and watches a film from Steve’s extensive list every Friday night. He’s got therapy on Thursdays and sparring on Saturdays with whoever’s on the roster, now including Steve. His life is full of structure, routine, and it works this time around.

But even when he keeps himself preoccupied, he can’t always shake the thoughts that surface when his mind gets too quiet. The nightmares, filled with pitch black and glaring white, blood red, are one thing; the guilt squeezing between his ribs is another.

He wakes up with clammy skin and a pounding heart, uncertain of where he’s at in the all-encompassing darkness. He’s not restrained, not in a cage or in a metal chamber, but where he’s at isn’t right, it doesn’t _feel_ right, and he panics. The tangled blankets get tossed to the floor, landing as quietly as his bare feet do. With four long strides, he gets to the door, swinging it open with enough force to dent the wall where the handle hits.

Three seconds, he counts, before the light in Steve’s room flickers on, a golden warning leaking from underneath the crack in the jamb.

The sharp bitterness for these nights comes out in such full force that he swears he can taste something sour at the back of his tongue. It could be worse, it has been, but that doesn’t make _this_ any easier.

Bucky knows how it goes. He’ll take a left, pad (not _sneak,_ not in his own home) to the kitchen to make tea, the tacky little shield nightlight glowing red and blue and fluorescent white form the socket near the sink. He’ll make the water hot enough to register on the sensors of his prosthetic and by the time he reenters the great room, Steve will be lounging on the couch with a fluffy throw, watching the muted TV with feigned concentration.

( _“Go back to bed, Steve. I’m fine.”_

_“I know.”_

_“I don’t need a damn babysitter.”_

_“Hey, I’m just here for the infomercials, jerk._ You _go back to bed if you don’t want to share my blanket.”_ )

Steve is unpredictable in some ways, but his dependability is always stable. And when Bucky pulls the whistling kettle off the fire, he knows exactly what he’ll see when he turns around.

The warmth of the mug between Bucky’s hands is nothing compared to what the image of Steve lit only by the flickering hues from the television spreads through him. He doesn’t smile, not yet, but past experience tells him that he will soon. He might even tug at Steve’s golden-halo hair to get _him_ smiling if he wants to put himself fast at ease because that giggly, snorty sound tearing its way through Steve’s throat always does the trick.

“What’s on tonight?” he asks hoarsely, giving Steve permission to engage with him.

Steve’s head turns in his direction. “Whatever’s in the player,” he says.

And that, at least, is better than those damn infomercials that Steve likes to poke fun at. So with one hand still on his mug, he uses the other to lift the blanket enough to drape across his body when he takes the spot, shoulders touching, next to Steve.

Steve’s arm rests at the back of the couch, warm skin pressed just barely to the back of Bucky’s neck, hand dangling so that fingers graze the metal bicep poking out through the ripped sleeve of his sleep shirt. It’s an open position, an offering for Bucky to lean closer, to accept warmth and comfort if he’s mindful enough to understand he deserves it. The thing is… Bucky _knows_ he doesn’t deserve it, but he’s selfish enough to seek it out anyway. And he has, whenever the terrors of the dark reach out to pull him under.

So far, it’s happened every night this week.

It hasn’t been this bad in a while, not since the first few months at the Tower. He doesn’t know what the problem is now, only that waking up in his new room hasn’t felt right and no matter what he does, like changing the position of the bed or keeping the lights flicked on, nothing seems to alleviate the alien feelings buzzing beneath his skin.

“Buck –”

“M’fine,” Bucky mumbles immediately, not even letting Steve’s concerns be voiced.

How many times had it been the other way around? How many times had it been Bucky begging for Steve to just humor his Mother Henning so he’d know for certain that he wouldn’t have to stay up praying all night long? He doesn’t want to pull back, shut himself off from help; doesn’t want to lose Steve to his own stubborn insecurities. It’s just, the idea of Steve getting fed-up and leaving his sorry, broken ass still scares him like nothing else can.

He burrows himself into Steve’s solid side, receives what he’s being given like a gift he can’t and won’t ever refuse, and waits with bated breath for Steve to try a different tactic.

“We’ll head back to the Tower,” Steve decides after a long moment of simply sharing body heat and listening to the barely-there murmurs of the DVD playing on the screen. “I know how jarring being in a new place can be. We needed more time, that’s all, so we’ll go back.”

 _We_. It’s always _we_ with Steve, always a team, never singular. Bucky smiles wryly and kicks his feet up onto the table, pleased that the blanket is long enough to cover his toes.

“Not _we_ ,” he corrects. “I’m done making you get outta bed just to sit up in the dark. You go to Stark’s. I’ll stay here, take a week to get myself together.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Steve says, never one to shy away from voicing his opinion. “We do better when we’re not alone.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Steve squeezes him closer, no doubt glad for the agreement, and all Bucky can do is reach over and gingerly pluck the mug from Steve’s right hand. The taste is dull, but serves to sooth the dryness of his mouth, so he gulps the rest in one go.

“There’s another solution,” Steve informs him after a short moment of thoughtful silence. “We bunk up. Like we used to.”

Bucky sighs, turns his body just enough to get a good look at Steve’s earnest expression.

“Right. The only difference is that now, I might accidentally kill you in my sleep.”

He doesn’t miss the way Steve’s eyes dart to the ceiling in exasperation. “You haven’t tried anything like that yet. And last I checked, we were pretty evenly matched.”

“And last _I_ checked, you weren’t willing to fight me for your life.”

It comes out angrier than he’d meant it to, but they’re done with trying to tip-toe around each other. Besides, they’ve talked about this very delicate subject early on, when Bucky was still trying to sort out the fragmented pieces of his memory. The only fight Steve had ever given up on was the one against the Winter Soldier on the helicarrier, so naturally he’d demanded an explanation. Steve promised he’d never do something like that again, only because Bucky remembered enough to understand _why_ he’d dropped the shield.

He never apologized for it, though.  Bucky knew he never would.

“I have something to lose now,” Steve says quietly, eyes trained on Bucky like there’s nowhere else to look. His insides flutter in an intimately familiar way. “I won’t go down so easy.”

“You never did,” Bucky concedes.

Steve smiles, bright and sweet as a summer day, and Bucky can’t resist giving into him.

 

Their rooms aren’t too diverse. The beds are pushed against the far wall in both places, desks near the middle and dresser’s in the corner. The difference is in the details. Where the walls had been bare in their apartment at the Tower, they’re filled with charcoal sketches of people and places now, full of life. He spots himself up there, near Natasha and Sam and Thor, near two versions of Peggy, and he recognizes the outlines of the Brooklyn Bridge, Avengers Tower, pinned up between endless rows of snowy trees.

This part _is_ like how it used to be, in a different time and place. But things have changed, _they’ve_ changed, and Bucky’s starting to realize that maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

He can remember snuggling up in the cold, before the war and during, atop couch cushions and hidden away in abandoned homes or drafty tents. What he can’t remember is how it felt.

 _Not as good as this_ , he thinks, with his body enveloped by heat, pressed against hard lines and soft fleece. _This,_ compared to bony elbows and wheezing chests of the past, compared to mud and blood and sweat and unshed tears, silent prayers and creeping dread. _This_ – Bucky’s back to the door, shielding Steve’s head where it rests near his shoulder at an awkward angle, but they can both outlast it now.

 _This_. Their past, their present, their future – it’s as intertwined now as it was always meant to be.

Lying next to Steve _feels_ right because it _is_. 

 **____________________________**  

Steve fought tooth-and-nail against his allies, the government, the _world_ to get Bucky’s life off the line. Stark had been against him at first, understandably so, until one day he did a 180 and decided to let Steve _and_ Bucky take shelter in his home. Bucky’s pretty certain it has something to do with Steve nearly dying in the battle that ensued.

While Steve fought for Bucky the way Bucky always fought for Steve, they called it a truce and decided that he wouldn’t have to go out in the field if he didn’t want to, even if and when he was cleared to do so.

“ _You served your country,”_ Sam had said. “ _Now it’s break time. I’ve got your boy’s back._ ”

He thought that was funny considering Sam and Steve had _also_ served and deserved a break. So instead of waiting for Steve to come home from missions like some poor soldier’s wife, he grits his teeth and suits up to follow him into the frays of the future.

He’s fairly certain that no one, not even Thor, enjoys what they do, but he’s also fairly certain that no one loathes it as much as he does. But for all their differences, then and now, he and Steve never stopped agreeing that there will always be something worth fighting for.

His Stevie, little or big, is _it_. 

**____________________________**

 

“You make a mean PB&J, Rogers.”

Steve snorts from across the table and continues to tear into his pile of sandwiches.

“I didn’t see you pulling out the pots and pans for a five star meal,” he quips once his cheeks are relieved of their chipmunk status.

“Is this you being spoiled?”

Steve tilts his head back and laughs, the sound rattling through Bucky’s body like his bones after a mighty fall. Only this time, his reaction is a smile.

“I guess I’m so used to losing, I don’t really know what to do with all I have now.”

Steve’s still smiling, not like the way he does when he’s sad, the way that breaks Bucky’s heart, but like he’s genuinely happy. It’s something Bucky can only remember seeing a handful of times in his life.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Steve’s staring right back, lips still quirked even though his forehead is creased with concern. It’s the moments after spacing out that he’s most acutely aware of everything, especially of Steve. It might be a reaction to all the time he’s lost involuntarily, a reflex to make sure Steve hasn’t disappeared like some apparition forged to torture him into submission. Hell, it might just be the way he is.

Bucky’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. He’s about to say something to ease the sudden tension but gets distracted just before any words can form, his eyes darting  down to take exclusive notice of Steve’s lips parting to let his own mouth be traced by the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t know why it makes him grin, teeth uncovered and all, but it happens and Steve mirrors him immediately.

“Well, you better figure it out,” he grips a sandwich and brings it up to his mouth, staving off taking a bite until after he says, “because you’re about to get a whole lot more.”

“Bucky, _no_ ,” he stresses.Steve’s bare toes poke Bucky’s shin under the table, so Bucky returns the favor, jamming the pad of his foot against Steve’s knee hard enough to push the chair back a couple of inches. “For the last time, I don’t want anything for Christmas.”

“What do you expect me to do with all this back pay?”

“Buy yourself something. Or Natasha. You being here is all I want.”

Bucky scoffs to hide the blood rushing to his neck and ears. He flings a sandwich at Steve’s face and chuckles when jelly blobs stick to his cheeks and glide down his jaw to land in purple splotches against the crisp white shirt stretched across his torso.

The mischievous twinkle in those baby blues is all the warning Bucky needs to be able to dodge the counter attack, but he lets Steve’s peanut-buttery fingertips tug at his hair anyway, just so he can glimpse the rare self-satisfied glow that follows.

“You’re helping me wash that out.”

 “Only if you do the laundry this week.”

Bucky rips a piece of crust from his bread and drops it into Steve’s milk, enjoying the way his friend’s face scrunches in disgust.

Only then does he say, “Deal.” 

 **____________________________**  

“Quick question,” Bucky grunts in between throwing calculated punches and dodging equally calculated kicks. “What do you get _Captain America_ for Christmas?”

“World peace,” Natasha answers immediately, digging a hard elbow into his cheek.

He winces. “Okay, what about _Steve_?”

He sweeps her legs out from underneath her and watches with something akin to pride as she uses her palms against the mat to spring herself upright once more.

“The rest of Hydra splattered against his shield?”

He blocks a kick to his ribs. “I was thinking something a little less bloody.”

She ducks the swing of his metal arm, huffs out, “Well, you’d know better than any of us.”

“Would I?”

It’s a legitimate question, one he’s been holding in for weeks now, so it only makes sense to bring it up with the only other person he has a deep seeded connection with.

She tilts her head and lunges, ready to level his mouth with a punch that he stops with ease, metal fingers curling around her dainty wrist. Bucky then twists her arm gently, forcing her into a spin, and she uses all her weight to make him follow her exact path. He can imagine how the two of them look, like dancers in a ballet, perfectly in tune with their stage and each other.

When she’s sure he isn’t just trying to distract her, Natasha straightens out of her defensive stance and hums.

“You don’t think so?”

Bucky shrugs. His gaze stays locked on a spot far behind her shoulder.

“He’s always said he didn’t want anything, but back then I always knew what he’d like. Now? I can’t figure it out.”

“I think Rogers is the type of guy who’ll love anything _anyone_ gets him. But _you_ could hand him a clump of dirt and he’d fall over. Don’t do that, by the way. I plan on sticking one in his stocking and telling him it’s his long lost twin. You know, since he’s _old as dirt._ ”

Bucky stares at her for a long moment, unblinking. “ _Wow_ ,” he draws out.

“You want one?”

“I didn’t know you could be so unhelpful.”

Very pointedly, Natasha activates the electric charge in her gauntlets. He raises a brow challengingly and is met with a playful smirk.

“It’s pretty simple, Barnes,” she continues. “Get creative. Try some love coupons.”

Bucky scrunches his nose. “What the heck is a _love coupon_?”

Natasha tosses her hair over her shoulder and puts on the expression she wears when she’s trying to seem disinterested in something. Bucky can read her too well not to notice.

“You cut out little strips of paper and write activities on them, things you think they’d enjoy. Like – _weekend getaway_ or _one free massage_. _Personal servant for a day_. That sort of thing.” When Bucky continues to stare, part bewildered and part curious, Natasha crosses her arms. “Ask Clint. He gave me one last year.”

“I don’t think giving _love coupons_ to your best friend is the way to go.”

“It can be,” she assures him. “Just don’t promise to fulfill any sexual fantasies and you should be good.” Her fingertips rest against her chin thoughtfully for all of three seconds, and then, “On second thought –”

“Good _bye_ , Natasha.” 

 **____________________________**  

The thing about Bucky’s recovery is that it’s _Steve’s_ recovery, too. They’ve both lived shit lives and are both still suffering from it. And while Bucky tends to do most of the cooking and cleans the bathroom by himself almost exclusively every time, not to mention all the times he’d ran (and still runs) after Steve in an attempt to protect him, he still owes a hell of a lot.

When Bucky comes home one day and finds a stack of little purple papers stapled together, titled _LOVE COUPONS_ in messy chicken scratch, he figures he might as well use it to get some ideas.

It’s December 5th already, so he settles himself on picking out 20 of the best coupons and making it some sort of countdown to Christmas thing, hoping that, in the meantime, he can weasel enough information out of Steve to get him a physical present.

Bucky plops himself down on the couch, legs crisscrossed atop the comfy cushions, and begins to flip the slightly crinkled book. After reading tiny page after tiny page full of things like _free offer of doing dishes for a week, one home cooked dinner with dessert, your choice of movie night, a shoulder to cry on when things get bad,_ and _one car wash with the promise to fill up the gas tank_ , he realizes that he and Steve do this stuff for each other on a regular basis.

Of course, sprinkled through the innocent, friendlier options are more _romantic_ ideas, such as _a night of wild strip poker_ and _a handwritten erotic love letter_ , which just makes Bucky wonder about Natasha and Clint until he promptly cringes and tosses the book carelessly onto the table, his eagerness and hope all but snuffed out.

It’s then that the door swings open and Steve steps through the threshold, sweaty and flushed from his afternoon workout. A happy grin lights up his face the moment his eyes meet Bucky’s.

“Hey, Buck.”

He very resolutely does _not_ look at the embarrassing book of coupons laid out in the open when he replies with, “Hey. Who’d you get today?”

“Clint.”

Bucky’s eyes trail Steve as he heads into the kitchen.

“Yeah? You kick his ass?”

“We both got some good hits in –”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Bucky interrupts, letting the smile show in his voice. Steve, facing the refrigerator, shakes his head and huffs a breathy laugh, and Bucky uses that moment to quickly swipe the coupons back into his possession.

But then Steve turns around before Bucky can shove the damn thing between the couch cushions and it’s as if he’s been caught red-handed with something incriminating. That’s not very far from the truth, honestly.

“I’ve got him on combat, but aside from shield tossing, he wipes the floor with me when it comes to range.” He takes a long pull from his water bottle and Bucky’s eyes drop to watch his throat bob on the swallow. “What’s that?”

He’s talking about the little stack of purple Bucky’s clutching in his metal hand, of course, and Bucky knows just by Steve’s tone that being casual or playing dumb will set off alarms just as easily as acting suspicious will. So it’s better to just tell the truth right out of the gate.

“I tried seeing if Natasha had any ideas about what I could get you –” Steve’s expression turns pinched, but Bucky barrels on before he can even open his mouth, “and _this_ was her idea. It’s some weird thing between her and Clint. Better suited for the garbage than for you.”

“Hey, wait – lemme see.”

Bucky shoots to his feet and laughs, though the effect is probably dampened by the way he starts rubbing at his neck, a nervous habit he’d only recently started to acquire again.

“Seriously, Steve, it’s a joke. You know how Natasha is. She wants to get you a clump of dirt and call it your twin, for Christ’s sake.”

He knows he’ll pay for spilling the beans on that little tidbit of information, but it doesn’t matter so long as it gets Steve off his back.

It doesn’t, however, and now he’s stuck with two potential problems.

“Well then, let me see, too. I could use a good laugh.”

With a deep inhale and great hesitancy, Bucky holds out the coupons for Steve once he’s close enough to grab them. And once he does, Bucky drops back down onto the couch and turns on the TV, doing his best to watch a famous chef yell at all the incompetence going on in the kitchen instead of trying to gauge Steve’s reaction as if it were important, as if this whole thing was _Bucky’s_ doing when it absolutely was and is not.

When Steve’s eyes go wide and then flicker to Bucky, he knows the more suggestive options have made their appearance.

“Don’t make the mistake of picturing Clint and Nat doing whatever it is you just read.”

Steve gives him a dirty look. “Now I am, thanks.”

“No problem, pal.”

“It’s definitely interesting, I’ll give ‘em that. And I like some of these ideas…”

“Yeah, but we do most of those anyway.” Steve blinks owlishly and Bucky rolls his eyes. “I wash your bike all the time. And I swear I can remember doing the dishes for a whole _two weeks –_ ”

“Yeah, okay. But I like the ones we don’t do.” Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up and he swears his face has just spontaneously caught on fire, but he’s not the only one because Steve’s peachy skin looks awfully red, too. “Not – not like _that_. I mean – this one.”

The book gets shoved underneath his nose, so he has no choice but to look. Seeing _one sleep-in on any morning of your choice_ gets Bucky sinking back into the couch.

“You could do that on the regular if you didn’t get up so goddamned early just to run.”

“Like you don’t wake up ten minutes after I do?”

“Yeah, ‘cause you being awake means you’re able to do something stupid and I can’t take any more chances.”

Steve stares at him in that _fond_ way, when his eyes get all wide and the brows above them rise and the corner of his mouth gets curved into an almost dreamy smile. It’s _fond_ and it’s… _something_.

Bucky’s fingertips tug at the strands of hair that won’t stay encased in his messy bun.

“So, is this my gift?” Steve asks once that _look_ slips from his face, replaced with a normal bright grin once more.

“Thought you didn’t want one,” Bucky grumbles.

“I didn’t, but you were gonna get me one anyway, so it might as well be this.”

Bucky reaches out and pulls the book from Steve’s hands, flips through it without even looking at the words because all of them are already seared into his brain. “There’re like five in here that you’d wanna use. That’s not much of anything.”

Steve yanks the book out of Bucky’s hands huffily, clutching it to his chest like something precious. He doesn’t even want to think about how satisfied and smug Clint and Natasha would be if they found out Steve actually wanted to use their stupid little _love coupons_.

But if this is what Steve wants then that’s what he’ll get. It’s certainly no hardship for Bucky. 

**____________________________**

**December 6 th**

It’s the fourth consecutive night that Bucky’s slept in Steve’s room, curled up on his marshmallow bed, legs tangled with Steve’s between the sheets. It’s also the fourth consecutive night without nightmares intense enough to wake him screaming.

It’s not a coincidence.

The beeping phone is what draws him out of his 5 hours of blissful rest, like it has for the past few mornings. Bucky rolls onto his back so Steve can crawl over and off him to get ready for his run, but becomes groggily confused when he finds himself being rolled onto his side after a full minute of silence and zero rustling.

“S’my sleep-in day,” Steve murmurs, warm and sleepy and complete with a little drool, into Bucky’s cotton clad shoulder.

“Okay?”

Steve’s arm slips around his waist and suddenly he’s being snuggled like a giant teddy bear.

“You got somewhere to be?”

“No,” Bucky whispers, a little perplexed by Steve’s sudden touchy-feely behavior. It’s not as if they aren’t affectionate; it’s not as if they don’t participate in friendly _cuddles_ , either. It’s just… well, Steve’s wiggling down far enough to press his nose against Bucky’s exposed clavicle and that’s not something that should make his insides clench up like a vice, but it does.

It’s nice, really, so Bucky lets himself smile and rub Steve’s back like he can remember doing so long ago. They stay in bed for a whole hour and a half before Steve wakes up enough to let his growling stomach guide them straight to the kitchen.

*********

**December 8 th**

Bucky’s pretty sure Steve only wants a Hot Fudge Sunday from the nearest parlor on a very chilly winter day just so he can prove that the coupons _are_ a good idea. So he gets the biggest size they have, plus another one, and relishes every spoonful like he’s never tasted anything better. It’d be an insult to Bucky’s cooking if it wasn’t so sweet; the image of big, grown up Stevie looking like the happy kid he never got to be.

He’s aware of how tenderly he must be staring, eyeing the chocolate stuck at the corners of Steve’s mouth and coating his chin, but that’s nothing really new. In fact, he feels a sense of déjà vu, only instead of an ice cream parlor in modern-day Manhattan, he sees himself in a European pub with singing friends around the corner and liquor settling like water in his system.

It’s not the same. _Nothing_ is ever the same. He’s glad for that.

*********

**December 13 th**

Bucky doesn’t know where these wackjobs come from, but there’s definitely no shortage, not even around the holidays. The week started off with a group of men dressed as animals robbing the Metropolitan National Bank. That didn’t require Bucky’s assistance, so he stayed home and went about his business, only checking the news sporadically for updates on the situation. It took a couple hours to get the idiots to surrender, but no one was harmed and the stolen money was intercepted before it could even reach the outside air.

Next came a guy – at least, Bucky _thinks_ it was a guy – who wore some weird hypnotizing orb helmet and shot laser guns while riding a motorcycle. It took only Steve and his own bike to stop him, but Bucky kept himself on standby for good measure, just in case… and definitely not to appreciate the way Steve looked straddling his gorgeous Harley in his newest Cap suit. Definitely not.

The biggest issue came in the form of an alien called Xemnu who seemed hell-bent on challenging Banner’s Hulk. That wouldn’t have been a problem, considering his indestructible status, if it hadn’t been for the _extra_ powers the thing possessed. Still, working as a team gave them eventual victory and a lot of sore body parts.

After a nice long, hot shower, all he wants to do is stretch out on the couch and mess around with the tiny piano hologram on his StarkPhone. He gets a good tune going for nearly ten minutes before he’s thrown on high alert again.

Steve’s hair is still wet from the shower and his shirt clings to him as if he hadn’t dried off at all. He’s wincing with every slow step he takes but doesn’t dare let out a peep, just keeps on pretending like he’s mildly bruised instead of nearly full of shattered bones that won’t heal if he _doesn’t fucking sit down_.

“Steve.”

“I’m just getting some water.”

“I’ll get it.”

“It’s fine. I’m –”

“ _You’re not_ ,” Bucky snaps, and Steve slumping against the wall instead of trying to argue says a lot about how far gone he is with his pain right now. High amounts usually make him snappish and angry, so his body must be putting up a huge aching protest if Steve verbally isn’t. “I’ll carry you over here if you don’t turn your ass around right now.”

When Steve does turn around, he’s glowering, but he’s also obedient.

Bucky watches him amble over with pursed lips, ready to catch him if he suddenly tips over. He doesn’t and shoots Bucky a grin smug enough to warrant an annoyed glance up to the ceiling.

“Always got somethin’ to prove…” he mutters to himself, though he knows for a fact Steve can hear him just fine. He moves his weight as if to stand and says more clearly, “I’ll get your water,” but nimble fingers wrapping around his wrist stops him in his place.

“I’m fine.”

“So that was just an excuse to avoid resting?”

“No,” Steve replies airily. “It was just an excuse – which I shouldn’t need, since this is my house, too – not to go to my room.” Bucky makes a sound of disapproval at the back of his throat, but says nothing more. Arguing with Steve will get him nowhere. He watches instead, taking note of the way Steve tries to avoid brushing the back of his right arm against the couch while he digs inside the pockets of his sweats. He sighs when he sees the purple book of coupons come into view.

“Do you keep that on you at all times or what?”

“Never know when I’m gonna need a favor.”

Bucky plucks the book from Steve’s loose fingers, says, “You used to hate favors,” even though he doesn’t really think of these as such.

“You were the only one ever doing me any. I felt like a burden and that’s what I hated, but I don’t mind it anymore.” _Because you doing me favors means you’re still here_ , Bucky can hear in the silence.

He understands more than he’d like to let on, but Steve’s always been good at sensing his moods, even if he stopped being able to read him like the open book he never fully was. He can be, now; if he stops confusing himself.

Shifting on the couch to face Steve at a better angle, Bucky clears his throat. “So which one?”

Steve doesn’t bother pretending not to have them memorized by now. It makes Bucky twitchy for reasons he can’t yet name. Steve is unpredictable in these moments and it both excites and frightens him.

“Third one.”

 _Back rub_.

“You sure that’s a good idea? You’re pretty banged up, bud.”

“It’ll be good,” Steve swears. But then his eyes go a little wide and he stutters out quickly, “But you don’t have to, you know? You should get some rest, too –”

“C’mere.”

He’s patient with Steve’s snail-pace shifting, gentle with his hands when he gets them situated over Steve’s warm, broad shoulders. The shirt’s still clinging, slower to dry than his heated skin, and he’s Bucky’s little ball of light once again. His life isn’t so dark anymore, but that doesn’t mean Steve’s shine is any duller. He’s the brightest light in the world, always was and always will be.

“I remember doing this,” Bucky whispers into the silent space between them, five fingerprints of pressure dragging down the tense back in front of him. And Bucky isn’t sure if it’s his words or his touch that make Steve’s breathing hitch.

 “Yeah?” Even with one word, Bucky can hear how much effort Steve’s putting into masking his hope.

“Yeah. You had a bad back and you’d let me touch you sometimes.” That didn’t come out right. “Help you,” he corrects. “Your back? I used to rub it, right?”

They don’t talk about what Bucky does and doesn’t remember. It’s better that way, most of the time; gets rid of all the undue pressure of trying to fit into a mold that’s long been distorted. But sometimes he _wants_ to talk about it, to not only remind himself where he’s come from but to remind Steve.

They were on a fire escape rickety enough to make Bucky nervous, but Steve remained unflappable, and they’d been staring at the clotheslines, at the street below, with the Plymouths and the Cabriolet’s rolling along. Steve drew on scraps and Bucky watched over his shoulder, enthralled by the progression.

They were in an alley, bloody nosed, chests puffed out, and Bucky never cursed at Steve for making him this way, but the words had to come out somehow, so he spoke them through his fists and let the other guy receive the message.

They were roughhousing. Steve on his back, arms pinned by Bucky’s hands, short start-and-stop laughs spilling from his heaving chest. His eyes were crinkled until Bucky’s crooked grin couldn’t be anything more than a blurry outline in his vision.

They were in the dark – in New York or Italy or France, it didn’t matter – spewing nonsense at each other until all they could do was stare, both seeing better than they used to, than they should, in the star covered night. And only then did they speak their vulnerabilities, their fears and their wishes, through haunted eyes.

Bucky’s staring at Steve now, touching him. It’s not dark and they’re still haunted, but there’s something peaceful in their shared presence.

“Steve?”

“Yeah, sorry.” He clears his throat, remaining boneless under Bucky’s ministrations. He’s not certain where his thoughts and speech started intercepting, but he knows some of his memories have reached Steve’s ears, got him reeling. “I was just never sure how much you remembered.”

Bucky’s palms press flat against Steve’s back, ghosting upwards to rest against his scapulae. Wrists twist, fingers curling over shoulders, then down his hands go to glide over hard pectorals. Steve jerks, scooting himself farther back into the v of Bucky’s legs.

Bucky’s inhale is deep and quick, his exhale ghosting hotly over Steve’s ear, producing a shudder.

There’s something quiet in his mind that’s telling him to _stop_ , that this isn’t what you do to your best friend, no matter how close you are. Something tells him to stop, but Steve’s body leaning even farther back into his space, Steve’s head lolled back against his shoulder, the pale line of his throat trustingly exposed, tells Bucky that nothing about this is wrong. So he doesn’t stop. He lets his hands fall until they stop to rest on Steve’s stomach, the muscles tensing anticipatorily underneath his touch. He feels as if he’s being _given_ something in this moment and it’s heady.

“The stuff I remember, the stuff I don’t,” he says tightly, “I think it’s enough.”

“ _You’re_ enough, Bucky,” Steve assures him, voice thick and sluggish. “More than. The rest doesn’t matter.”

*********

**December 17 th**

“I need suggestions from someone who doesn’t enjoy embarrassing me,” Bucky tells Sam during their weekly post-therapy lunch.

Sam aborts biting into his burger in favor of staring at Bucky amusedly. “What’d you ask Natasha about this time?”

“What to get Steve for Christmas,” he mutters into his coffee, not even paying attention to how the sweet liquid scorches his tongue. “She and Clint have these _love_ _coupons_. I found a book of ‘em on the table. Steve thinks they’re fun.” Sam barks out a laugh. “But I’ve got no clue what to actually get him.”

“Yeah, and I’m guessing he’s no help.”

Bucky snorts. “He says he doesn’t want anything.”

“I’m not sure I wanna know, but I _gotta_ ask… what exactly are on those love coupons, man? Should I be saying congratulations or –” Whatever else Sam’s about to say gets cut off by a balled up napkin to the face.

He doesn’t really want to explain the back massage and all the stuff it made him think and feel, nor does he want to talk about the previous night where they’d been playing Would You Rather with Clint and Natasha and got called out on their supposed… _flirting_.

Is that what it was? Is that what they’ve been doing?

“Don’t make it weird?”

“It’s weird enough already.”

Sam blows out a rush of air and scratches at the short, dark hairs on his chin. Bucky waits patiently by turning his focus onto devouring his plate of hot fries.

“Okay. Okay, so I have an idea. It’s a big responsibility, but it’s something you’ll both enjoy and benefit from. You ready for this?”

“Gee, Sam, I dunno…”

Sam ignores Bucky’s sarcasm and states, simply and excitedly, “A dog.”

Bucky blinks. “A dog?”

“Hell, yeah! You know how good dogs are for vets with PTSD? Or just people in general, man’s best friend and all that. But like I said, big responsibility, so you have to be sure it’s what you both want.”

“I’m supposed to ask him if he wants a dog for Christmas?”

“No, you ask Natasha.”

Bucky laughs. “After the whole coupon thing? And then _Would You Rather_? Yeah, no thanks.”

“Would You Rather, huh?”

“ _Don’t_ ask.” 

 **____________________________**  

 **To: Natalia** [10:32]

Dog for a Christmas present: yes or no?

 **From: Natalia** [10:35]

Yes :)

 

 **From: Natalia** [10:36]

You’re more of a papa than a daddy, btw

 **To: Natalia** [10:36]

Don’t ever say that to me again

 **From: Natalia** [10:37]

:P

 

 **____________________________**  

**December 20 th**

Bucky feels himself waking at an earlier time despite there being no disturbances. He doesn’t feel Steve’s weight lift off the bed, doesn’t hear any sounds coming from the kitchen or the bathroom or the hall. So he keeps his eyes closed, stretches out his muscles, and yawns wide and long into his pillow.

It’s the prickle of being watched that finally prompts his lids to flutter open.

The dimming light of the night hits his face rather than Steve’s and he shouldn’t be able to notice, not even with how close they are, but he does, can’t see anything _but_ the reverent tenderness swirling around in Steve’s gaze. It steals his breath, makes him want to cry, to grin like a loon. He does a little bit of both.

Steve reaches up behind himself after several long seconds, flips the switch on the wall sconce above his head. The light’s usually too dull to aide in reading or sketching, but right now the fake flickering flames are like spotlights on Steve’s features, bathing him in orange and gold.

 _He’s so beautiful,_ Bucky thinks wildly. _He’s always been so beautiful._

Steve’s body leans back some, arm snaking under his pillow to grab something, eyes never straying from Bucky’s face. It’s the purple coupon book, he sees, and something about that exasperates him.

“Steve, _come on_ …” But his protests die down when he watches how intently the pages get flipped. When Steve turns the book around to show him, his heart leaps into his throat.

_A long, drawn-out good morning kiss_

“Are you…” _Crazy? Serious? Sure?_ He could ask any of those, but he already knows the answer; Steve looks _scared_. He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t ever be scared with Bucky.

“Steve –”

“Buck, wait –”

He should listen to Steve and wait this out, hear an explanation or make one up for himself. He should wait, but he doesn’t. He can’t.

Bucky closes the distance between them very slowly, curiously, eyes wide and heart pounding in his ears. Their noses scrunch together first, until Bucky tilts his head to the side and raises his chin, pressing their mouths together.

Everything he does with Steve is special, but this is no more so than usual; just another way to touch, to share themselves.  So he pulls back with uncertainty of what to say or what to think. But as always, Steve leads the way and Bucky follows.

They wet their lips this time, take a breath. Lean in close and add more pressure. It’s a warm, easy glide, and Steve’s mouth is so plush under his, so pliant and eager. Bucky doesn’t remember the last time he kissed someone, but he knows in his soul that it’s never been like this.

The air that leaves Steve’s lips gets drawn into Bucky when they pause. Their eyes are still open, they’ve barely even blinked, and Bucky’s chest is aching for more.

He dives in, gets swept up in Steve’s violent waves. Cups the familiar strong jaw roughly in his flesh hand and digs metal fingers tightly into short, silky hair. He feels Steve’s body wiggle in closer, feels the hard lines sag into the mattress and into him until there isn’t any space left, until they connect to make one big mass of tense muscle and heaving torsos.

Steve’s eyelids flutter shut before Bucky’s droop down. Their jaws unhinge wider and everything is slick and hot at once. And there’s a low sound working its way up Steve’s throat, coaxed out by Bucky’s tongue to travel down his spine. It’s exhilarating, it’s – God, he’s never felt so right.

“Bucky, _Bucky,_ ” gasped, prayerful.

“Stevie,” he sighs in return.

The hand fisted in Steve’s hair drops to grasp the back of his neck, thumb striking up a ghostly rhythm against his flushed skin. Steve jolts like he’s been electrocuted, retaliates by sucking Bucky’s bottom lip between his teeth for a nibble. His heart is racing and his stomach’s twisting delightfully and he lets himself get lost in Steve; in his puffed breaths and pleased hums; the slick, slow slide of their mouths, the hands that clutch tenderly at cloth and skin.

After a long while, they come to a halt, and the sun is shining through the window when he finally blinks. Steve’s face is slack like he’s sleeping, though Bucky knows he’s not. His crooked little smile and dark eyes make something bubble up inside Bucky’s chest, spilling over in the form of giddy laughter.

“Was that the whole reason you kept those damn coupons? So you’d have an excuse to kiss me?”

“ _You_ kissed _me_ first.”

Bucky wants to wipe that smirk off Steve’s mouth, preferably with his own. He rolls his eyes instead.

“Did you want to or were you just curious?”

“I wanted to,” Steve answers hotly, the lines between his brows deepening with his sincerity. “Have for a while now.”

Bucky laughs incredulously. “You could’ve done it a long time ago, you meatball.”

“I wasn’t sure _you_ wanted to,” Steve practically mumbles, turning his gaze downward. “Natasha said there were signs, but –”

“Fucking hell, she set me up!”

It’s Steve’s turn to laugh. “Probably.” When Bucky rolls onto his back to stare wide-eyed at the ceiling, Steve moves with him, hovering as he tells him, “But I swear I didn’t know.”

Bucky believes him, not that he’d particularly mind if Steve _was_ in on a scheme to pilfer some smooches. And honestly, the whole thing feels more like some big coincidence rather than an intended plan. Chances are, Natasha saw the opportunity and she took it.

Bucky glances down at Steve’s nervous expression and smiles at the sappiness that manages to shine through. He raises a hand to brush his fingertips over Steve’s forehead, pushing the stray hairs back where they belong.

“Don’t look so nervous, pal. M’not mad. Just…”

“Hey, I wasn’t messin’ around, okay? It wasn’t a game,” Steve says seriously, rising up on his elbows to loom over Bucky, shadowing him from the sun’s rays shining through the window.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Bucky chews on his lip in thought. He’s feeling a little anxious, if he must admit it to himself, and the only explanation is because he _doesn’t_ know what this thing is between them, if it’s the same for Steve as it is for him. But Steve initiated this whole thing, so he really did mean it. Everything else, they’ll figure out together.

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Steve nods, too, warm fingertips stroking Bucky’s cheek. He whispers, “You can kiss me again, if you want.”

Bucky does. 

**____________________________**

 

 **To: Natalia** [6:13]

You set me up

 **From: Natalia** [6:14]

What do you mean?

 **To: Natalia** [6:14]

Your fucking love coupons

 **From: Natalia** [6:15]

I take it they’re getting some use

 

 **From: Natalia** [6:15]

Clint will be pleased

 **To: Natalia** [6:16]

You told Steve there were “signs” I wanted to kiss him

 **From: Natalia** [6:16]

So? I wasn’t wrong

 

 **From: Natalia** [6:18]

Was I?

 **To: Natalia** [6:21]

No.

 **From: Natalia** [6:21]

Awe :D

 **To: Natalia** [6:22]

I’m not thanking you

 **From: Natalia** [6:23]

That’s ok. Steve already did.

 

 **____________________________**  

**December 21 st**

He and Steve ran a little warmer than average and didn’t take notice of the weather much anyway, but the cold was something that was engrained into them, that seeped between their fleece and wool to settle inside their bones. Bucky was certain that Steve thought about his old body sometimes, about how it’d nearly failed him in the winters, how he’d fever and shiver and need Bucky’s body to warm him better than any blanket even if he was too stubborn or too delirious to ask. And then after, crashing that plane and drowning until he froze over, landing himself 70 years into the future? The only thing that gave his discomfort away was the initial wince brought on by a chilly rush of air.

Bucky, on the other hand, hunched and hissed like an angry cat if he didn’t mentally prepare himself properly. Luckily, Steve sticking his tongue out to catch falling snowflakes or demanding Bucky aid him and Thor in snowman building made the icy weather seem less menacing.

They’d gotten a late start on decorating, having to stop because of missions or other daily duties, and with just days left until Christmas, they still haven’t completely finished. But at least Bucky’d _finally_ gotten Steve’s gift taken care of, left supervised at the Tower.

There were strands of lights and wreathes and fake potted poinsettias all around, not to mention the three gingerbread houses Steve forced them to make just so he could have something to put atop the rarely used dining table. The only thing missing was the most _important_ thing and they were only just dragging it into the house.

The tree Bucky carries in is tall and not very wide, perfect for the back corner of the great room. He sets it up for decorating while Steve fetches the boxes of ornaments they acquired last year, peacefully humming along to the music being blasted from their stereo. It’s an amalgamation of tracks, songs from every genre and every decade, new and old and classic and strange. He likes it all and Steve doesn’t mind either.

Bucky strings the lights and then lets Steve take care of the ornaments, given his eye for detail. He’s more than happy to sit himself on the couch and watch, teasing and being purposefully annoying until Steve pins him to the cushions and pretends to wrap the garland around his neck. If they stare a little too long or touch each other more than strictly necessary – well, they’re known to do both anyway, so it’s not that big of a deal.

Their kiss the previous morning doesn’t make them awkward, but it does make them more aware. Steve bites his lip when he’s concentrating hard on something and it’s not as if Bucky hadn’t noticed it before, it’s just that _now_ he’s thinking about the fact that he _knows_ what those lips feel like pillowed against his. And when Steve turns around to reply to something he’s said, or to just _look_ , to make sure Bucky hasn’t disappeared, he doesn’t miss the way that gaze flits almost longingly across his features.

And when Steve pulls out a tiny, crumpled piece of purple paper, Bucky doesn’t even blink; he just holds out his hand and waits.

 _One slow dance,_ the coupon reads this time.

He chuckles softly at the way Steve’s hidden himself behind the tree, peering goofily around the branches like he’s suddenly shy or embarrassed.

“You’re a regular romantic these days,” he tries to tease, slapping the paper onto the end table on his way to grab Steve. “You leading?”

“Uh, no. I –”

Bucky reaches out for Steve’s arm, intently watching the way shiny fingers circle a slim wrist, and pulls back until he can place the splayed hand on his hip, doing the same to the other.

“You’re taller,” he explains quietly, barely above the music that’s still playing in the background.  “You lead.”

He puts his own hands on Steve’s shoulders, pressing him until they’re both stepping together, towards the stereo. He hits the forward button a few times and then stops once the mellow opening of a familiar tune drifts through the room.

His arms go around Steve’s neck, crossed at the wrist, fingers laced, and he maneuvers them until their bodies fit snugly together. “You alright, punk?” he murmurs against Steve’s temple.

“Sure.”

Bucky leans back just enough to take in the look on Steve’s face and, yes, he’s definitely nervous. It’s funny, in a way, but he doesn’t dare laugh. Steve’s not as sensitive as he used to be, but he’s delicate in other ways and it’s Bucky’s job to protect him.

“Steve, relax. It’s me, right? It’s me.”

It takes a second for the words to register. When they do, Steve’s tense muscles ease and he begins guiding them to the raspy voice of the singer.

“Yeah,” he breathes into Bucky’s hair. “Yeah, it’s you.”

_♪ Come with me, my love; to the sea, the sea of love. I want to tell you how much I love you. ♪_

They sway to the music, bodies brushing with every step. Steve’s hands clutch at Bucky’s hips tenderly, thumb hiked up underneath his waffle-weave shirt, and Bucky’s own hands can’t stay dangling, have to find their home all twisted up in Steve’s hair.

 _♪ Do you remember when we met? That’s the day I knew you were my pet. I want to tell you how much I love you._ _♪_

One of the first memories that came back to Bucky _was_ how they met. It had been fuzzy, but the feeling of remembrance was there. They were stupid kids, naïve and stubborn and the happiest they’d be for a long, long while.

Bucky’s happy now, though. And Steve – judging by the wide, crinkly-eyed grin he’s sporting when he pushes Bucky back enough to be able to twirl him – is just as happy.

_♪Come with me, my love; to the sea, the sea of love. I want to tell you how much I love you. ♪_

And it’s here that Bucky realizes, as their laughter blends seamlessly into the closing strums of the song and he spins Steve around once, twice. It’s here that he _understands_.

He loves Steve, has loved him forever; like a best friend, like a brother in arms, like family. But he’s _in love_ with Steve, too; maybe always has been. It’s an ‘ _oh’_ moment that gets him standing stock-still while the next song begins.

Steve’s hands don’t leave him right away, not even when his own drop uselessly to his sides.

“Bucky?” Steve’s eyes search his. “You okay?”

 _I’m okay_ , he thinks. _I’m okay._

It’s a desperate motion, lifting his heels off the floor to smash his lips against Steve’s in a deep, bruising kiss. Steve holds on and doesn’t let go. 

**____________________________**

 

 **From: Clint** [12:20]

Get naked and bake him something

 **To: Clint** [12:24]

What the fuck

 **From: Clint** [12:24]

New coupon idea 4 next year. Had 2 tell u now

 

 **From: Clint** [12:25]

Also, bring spice cake 2 Avengers HQ 2moro

 

 **From: Clint** [12:28]

PLS

 **To: Clint** [12:28]

Fine, but only cuz steve said I had to

 **From: Clint** [12:29]

Good man

 

 **____________________________**  

**December 25 th**

The only Christmas Bucky remembers celebrating is last year’s, although _celebrating_ is a very broad term. The candy cane he ate and the tree he helped decorate inside Steve’s apartment at the Tower had been as festive as it got. It’s amazing how far 365 days will get you, in terms of change and progress.

If he thinks hard enough he might also recall a large family inside a tiny apartment, with a gift or two each and something that might be pie.

There’s no pie now, but there are chocolate chip pancakes smothered with cinnamon cream and that’s more than he could ask for. It’s more than _Steve_ could ask for, in fact, because he _hadn’t_ ; Bucky’d just ripped the _breakfast in bed_ coupon out at an ungodly hour and set to work trying to make something special to start off Christmas morning right.

It’s a miracle that Steve’s still curled up under the covers given that he’s nearly fully awake, not even bothering to turn the wall sconce on as he sketches with swift ease. Bucky stands in the doorway for a few long seconds, pancake stacked plate in one hand and a tall glass of juice in the other, and just watches Steve’s concentration, soaks up the way the pink tinted morning light casts shadows over his features from his spot on the bed, leant up against the wall underneath the open window.

“Smells good,” Steve says, barely glancing away from his whirlwind motions.

“Tastes good, too.” Bucky edges himself closer to the bed so he can get a peek at what’s captured Steve’s attention, biting his lip when the broad strokes making up his features stare right back. “Eat.” He shoves the plate into Steve’s hands once the pencil and sketchpad get deposited to the side and then digs into his pocket while offering the juice, too. Steve takes it and snorts a laugh when Bucky pulls the coupon into view.

This is more than just a _Merry Christmas_ breakfast, it’s a way to work himself into voicing the thoughts that have been floating around in his mind. The way Steve’s looking at him, trying to be casual and undemanding while he digs into his food, tells Bucky that he _knows_ something important is about to be said.

“So, I was thinkin’ –”

“A dangerous pastime.”

Bucky laughs a little despite himself and punches Steve in the arm. The grin he’s met with, coupled with that blond bedhead, makes his mouth go dry. Shit.

“Whatever’s going on between us, we need to talk about it. Right? Because I don’t wanna guess and…” _be wrong_. He could take it, if he was wrong. He’s been through worse than rejection. But he’s doesn’t _want_ to; what he _wants_ is _Steve,_ in all ways he can have him. “And the coupons are fun, but –”

“They’re not an excuse,” Steve says. Bucky nods. “Okay, so let’s talk.”

Bucky’s ready to tell him it can wait a few more minutes, just until Steve’s finished eating, but when he looks down he finds that the plate’s already empty. No putting off what he started, then.

 _Communication is key,_ his thoughts say in a voice that sounds a lot like his therapist’s. With a deep exhale, he plops himself down onto the edge of the bed and sets his sights on Steve’s patient features. The anxious crease in his forehead makes Bucky feel a little less out of his depth.

“You’re my best friend. Even when I couldn’t remember, you promised that was still true. And you’ve been here every step. You fought for me and compromised for me and were willing to give up _everything_ for _me_ and that’s crazy, Steve.”

“You would’ve done the same,” he answers immediately, a defensive hint in his tone.

Bucky smiles softly. “I would,” he confesses. “I would do _anything_ for you, and that’s my point. You’re my best friend, Steve, but I don’t think that’s all you are.”

He’s not sure if he’s expecting some long, drawn-out wait, but he doesn’t get it either way. Steve’s response is immediate.

“That’s how it is for me.”

He’s so earnest, so sweetly nervous, that part of Bucky thinks Steve is misunderstanding him, that he doesn’t really _get_ what he’s claiming to reciprocate. It’s best to be blunt. No matter how scary the words seem, they’re just that – words. And he can speak them fine.

“I’m sayin’ I’m in love with you.”

Steve’s resounding laugh is giddy and relieved and maybe just a tinge amused. “I mean, I thought that’s what you were getting at, but it’s really nice to hear. And I’m in love with you, too, idiot. Don’t know how you could think otherwise.”

“Like you were any less clueless,” Bucky says with a snort, though all he wants to do is collapse on top of Steve and laugh. “Talking to Natasha behind my back, using those coupons to see how I felt instead of just askin’ me.”

“Fair enough,” Steve concedes. And then he’s moving, getting on all fours and crawling towards Bucky until their faces, their _lips_ , are mere inches apart. “I’m askin’ now –”

“You don’t have to. Do what you always do and go for it.”

Evidently, Steve doesn’t need to be told twice on this matter because his mouth meets Bucky’s before he can even finish the last syllable. It’s closer to chaste than anything else, but it makes his heart stutter and the soft sound that Steve murmurs against him gets his toes curling. His fingers itch to touch, so he lets them, both hands sliding up Steve’s angled body to caress his cheeks and jaw.

There’s no way he could ever get tired of this.

“So. No more coupons?”

Bucky ducks to press his face against Steve’s neck. His sigh makes Steve shiver and grip him tight.

“We might as well use the rest.”

He feels Steve’s nose press into his cheek, nudging. “All of them?”

Bucky’s lips rest near Steve’s ear. His answer of, “Every last one,” gets him pressed down onto the bed and drawn into a deep, unrelenting kiss. He allows it, basks in the pleasurable attention, gives back as good as he gets. Steve’s kisses are warm and soft, their shared breaths sweet in Bucky’s lungs, and god it feels so good, he can’t help but moan.

It’s only when he feels a little too hot, a little too ruffled and frantic and needing of _far_ more, that he tilts Steve’s head back enough to press their foreheads together. He doesn’t _want_ to stop; he wants nothing more than to keep going and going, but seeing Steve look so put-off makes him want to tease, just a little.

“As much as I like you on top of me, I got a cake to bake, remember?”

“Prioritize,” Steve orders, adding a little more weight to his straddle. It’s not enough to stop him from getting up, but it is enough to make it a challenge. And it’s not hard to predict where play wrestling will get them in this moment. He has to be strong.

“We’re picking up your gift tonight.”

Steve pushes himself back. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “I told you I didn’t want anything,” he reprimands, but he doesn’t bother masking how eager he really is.

Bucky grins, rubs his palms over Steve’s thighs. “Well, it’s for me, too. Sam’s suggestion.”

That’s earns a begrudging sigh of acceptance. “Alright, but before you do anything, let me give you _your_ gift.”

For whatever reason, it hadn’t even occurred to Bucky that Steve could want to get him something, that he actually _would_. It’s not a surprising idea, but it’s unexpected. And Bucky’s far too curious to even argue about money being spent on him, especially when his hand is engulfed by Steve’s and he’s being led towards the one place in the house he hasn’t stepped foot inside for days: his own bedroom. Steve looks smugly pleased about it all.

They pause in front of the door, one of Steve’s hands still tangled with Bucky’s, the other clasping the knob.

“Thor helped me out with this,” Steve starts off, like it’s supposed to be a fair warning. Bucky’s mind immediately starts conjuring up a bunch of weird Asgardian objects that Steve could’ve been talked into presenting him with. “You like music and working with your hands, and you’re always looking for new hobbies, so –”

“C’mon, just show me.”

The door gets swung open and Bucky’s eyes immediately land on big black instrument standing in the center of the floor.

He’s played Barton’s drums and Tony’s guitar, but never a piano, the one instrument he’d taken a special liking to. But there it is; a mini grand, all shiny and perfect, waiting to be touched by Bucky’s inexperienced fingers.

He tries to say something, but words won’t come easily. How can he express how grateful he is? How touched? ‘ _This is something I never knew I actually wanted and I can’t wait to try it out, thank you’_ just doesn’t represent his emotions.

“I thought it’d be a good break from the garage, y’know? There’s always something to practice, so you’ll never get bored, and… if you don’t want it, that’s okay –”

“Steve,” Bucky says with a laugh. “I love it. I love it and I love you and just… thanks. I mean it.”

Steve’s nervous demeanor relaxes and his expression turns soft. He reaches for Bucky, grips the back of his neck and smiles, and Bucky is powerless to resist the urge to kiss him.

Steve whispers, “I’ll be kind of upset if this is how you thank Thor, too,” against Bucky’s lips, getting him to laugh and pull him closer, mumming a promise that this is just for him, always.

*********

The party at the Tower consists of outrageous presents, delicious food, and a good time around all the people he’s come to care about. They spend hours goofing off and only leave when all the activities and interaction have Bucky feeling little drained.

But first…

“Stay right there,” he says. Then he rushes off to Clint’s floor and returns with a small chocolate lab cradled in his arms. “Her name is Star. Sam helped me pick her out,” Bucky explains, and though Steve _tries_ to look disapproving, the brightness in his eyes and the width of his grin tells Bucky he’s done a real good thing.

He sets Star down and watches with unchecked glee as she slowly makes her way over to Steve’s crouched form, sniffing his hands, and within seconds she’s trying to climb her way up Steve’s chest to lick at his nose and cheeks.

“She’s cute,” he offers with a soft chuckle, scooping the dog up to get a better look.

Bucky shoves his hands into his pockets and nods, adding, “Good judge of character, too.”

Steve doesn’t disagree. In fact, he makes Bucky drive home just so he can sprawl out in the backseat with the little animal and coo at her in a way that Bucky’s never witnessed before. If he _absurdly_ wasn’t in love before, he certainly is now. Steve Rogers with a puppy is enough to melt anyone’s heart.

They play with Star until she conks out on her new little bed, leaving them alone in the comfort of their warm, colorfully lit living room. Steve suggests they finish the night off on the couch, with their feet propped up and the TV a quiet distraction until sleep finally calls for them. So Bucky shucks his outerwear, changes into his sweats, and settles himself down in a position that will allow Steve to slot in perfectly next to him.

Though Steve has other plans, it seems, because he excuses himself to the bedroom and stays away long enough to spark Bucky’s curiosity. But just when he starts to think about following, Steve returns with a crooked little smile and a single sheet of sketchbook paper in hand.

“What’s that?” Bucky wonders aloud, spurring Steve into action.

“I had this idea,” he begins as he moves to plant himself on the edge of the couch beside Bucky. At any other time, those words would send him into a panic, but they just serve to pique his interest now. “It seemed kind of silly at first, but with everything that’s happened… And we’ve come a long way, but the road never ends and this is something we both should know.”

Bucky takes a deep breath when Steve does, reaches out when the sheet of paper is presented for his taking. The first thing he notices is the title.

**_100 Reasons Why I Love You, Bucky Barnes by Steve Rogers_ **

And everything that comes after… well, if it makes him cry, they’re tears of joy, and if it drives him to carry Steve to the bedroom, it’s the most natural next step in the world. Intrinsic are their actions, fallible are their names on the other’s tongue. And with bodies sinking to the mattress, slow as stones in the lake, and hearts strung together like lit buoys in the dark, Bucky knows for certain that this is where he and Steve were always meant to be, _together._ It just took them a little while to get there.

Maybe time _has_ been kind, after all. 

 

**____________________________**

  
**From: Natalia** [6:23]

Good morning ;)

 

 **From: Natalia** [6:23]

Check your kitchen

 **To: Natalia** [6:25]

Why?

 

 **To: Natalia, Clint** [6:37]

Thanks, but stop breaking into my house

 **From: Clint** [6:38]

Just b glad tasha didn’t record your sex sounds

 

 **From: Natalia** [6:38]

Just be glad I’m not giving Stark access to what I heard last night

 

 **From: Natalia** [6:39]

Good for you, btw. Old people love is always cute.

 

 **____________________________**  

**____________________________**

 

 

**100 Reason Why I Love You, Bucky Barnes by Steve Rogers**

  1. Your heartbeat
  2. Your big mouth and the way it looks when you smile
  3. Your strength
  4. The way your hair falls against your face
  5. The way you look at me, the way you’ve always looked at me
  6. The dip in your chin
  7. Your crooked tooth
  8. The sound of your voice when you’re sleepy
  9. The way you always keep your promises
  10. How your hips move when you walk
  11. How you’ve always put your arm around me
  12. The way you tug my hair
  13. You never give up
  14. You make me so proud
  15. Your bravery
  16. How cute you look when you laugh
  17. How sweet you look when you sleep
  18. The way you curl your lips when you’re angry
  19. The way you know how to rile me up
  20. And the way you know how to calm me down
  21. Your smirk
  22. You’re always there for me
  23. How shitty you are at pretending not to be jealous
  24. Your intelligence is sexy
  25. The way your neck and ears get red when you’re embarrassed
  26. Your warmth
  27. The way you pout
  28. Your scent
  29. The fact that you understand me down to my core
  30. How you make me nervous and excited and happy all at the same time
  31. The way you let yourself be comfortable around me
  32. You’re my jerk and I’m your punk, still
  33. You’re my best friend
  34. How even when I had nothing, I had you
  35. We’re with each other to the end of the line
  36. How we still work well together despite how much we’ve changed
  37. How protective you are
  38. The way you don’t take any shit from me
  39. The way you tease
  40. The way you fight
  41. The fact that you cared about me when I felt like I was nothing
  42. Your hands, both of them
  43. Your scars because they remind me of how much you’ve been through to get to where you are now
  44. The way you touch me
  45. The way you have my back
  46. I can be honest with you and you’d never make me feel bad about it
  47. Your imperfections
  48. You drive me crazy
  49. How you’re courageous enough to show me the good and the bad
  50. The little crease between your eyebrows when you’re confused
  51. The way you still have it in you to joke around
  52. How you save my life time and time again
  53. How you believe I don’t owe you anything
  54. The way you cook for me
  55. You still call me Stevie
  56. For taking a chance on me more than once
  57. For trusting me
  58. Your patience
  59. You’re beauty, inside and out
  60. You let me draw you
  61. You let me touch you
  62. How our differences only make us closer
  63. The way you aren’t afraid of the past or the things you can’t remember
  64. But the way you aren’t fearless, either
  65. The feeling of your chest under my head
  66. Your breath on my ear
  67. Our house and how we made it a home together
  68. The way you spar with me
  69. The effort you put into everything you do
  70. You’re my Bucky
  71. You’re my soul mate
  72. Your arms are the safest place in the world
  73. You make me feel young
  74. You make me feel good
  75. You inspire me
  76. The look in your eyes when you’re listening
  77. All the ways you say my name
  78. How we make the best team
  79. How you fit in with the people I call my family
  80. How you call them your family, too
  81. Your respect
  82. Your loyalty
  83. Your devotion
  84. Your independence
  85. How the background on your phone is a picture of us at Coney Island
  86. How you call me a meatball
  87. And remind me I don’t have to be so serious
  88. We learn from each other
  89. We irritate each other
  90. Your cuddles are the best cuddles and the only cuddles I want
  91. The fact that I’m only talking about cuddles because of you
  92. You make me laugh
  93. You make me cry
  94. You make me want to kiss you and never stop
  95. How you dance with me 
  96. The way you taste
  97. The way you moan
  98. The way you look in my clothes
  99. How loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done
  100. You love me back



_*********  _

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays/and all that!! I've been working on this pretty much all month and decided I didn't want to wait any longer to post, so here it is. For [theboykingsbrokencrown](http://theboykingsbrokencrown.tumblr.com) for the 2014 [Stucky Secret Santa exchange.](http://stuckysecretsanta/tumblr.com) I really hope you like your fic! I hope everyone else likes it, too.
> 
> Okay, some notes:  
> Some points I wanted to hit after talking it over with the giftee are: post TWS, domestic/fluff, holiday, friends to lovers. I think I touched all of those in some way, so I'm happy there.
> 
> I imagine this taking place about 2 years after Civil War and everything is fine and good and nobody dies and Bucky and Steve have reunited with their Avenger family, yay! 
> 
> Listened to Cat Power’s Sea of Love a LOT during writing this.
> 
> Title comes from Bloom by The Paper Kites (a very beautiful song). Also, there’s a piano cover by Marcel M. on youtube that’s incredibly gorgeous.


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